


Awakened and Possibly Even Summoned

by ZehWulf



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Eldritch, Monsters, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Other, mofu bingo 2021
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:01:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29150142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZehWulf/pseuds/ZehWulf
Summary: Prompt fills for MoFu Bingo 2021. There be monster content ahoy. Will add more tags in chapter notes per prompt fill to make it easier to choose your own adventure. (We'll see how long the rating stays at an M.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 45
Kudos: 96
Collections: MoFu Bingo 2021





	1. Prompt: Slime/Goo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: Slime/Goo
> 
> Thanks to Liquid_Lyrium for the quick beta and many, many flappy taco emojis <3
> 
>  **Chapter tags:** Crowley as an eldritch being, one (1) tentacle(-ish), goo

Aziraphale lifted his lantern higher within the dank confines of the cavern and watched with equal elation and terror as the light was swallowed up by a writhing black mass of something that filled the entire back half of the space. So, the ancient texts and local lore hadn't been wrong. He'd finally found the creature's lair.

"Who dares disturb the Dread Serpent?"

The voice slithered up along the dark corners and echoed back on itself to the point Aziraphale couldn't tell if it came from the coiling shadows or from some other entity, perhaps unseen.

"My apologies for disturbing you," he said, trying to aim for polite but firm. When dealing with occult forces, it didn't do to appear nervous or weak. "My name is Aziraphale, and I've come to ask you a question."

The shadow continued to ooze and pulse in time to some rhythm of its own: too even to be a heartbeat, too fast for breathing. He was put in mind of the staticky hum of unmodified pulsar recordings or the throb of strobe lights. And then, from the center of the gloom, a pair of enormous yellow eyes, slashed through with a razor thin pupil, opened wide and stared.

"A quesssstion?" the voice hissed, sounding intrigued and a touch too gleeful for Aziraphale's peace of mind.

"Er, yes. If you don't mind."

"What forbidden knowledge are you seeking, I wonder?" the voice mused. "What could be so important that you would go through the trouble of tracking me down and then braving my lair? I know many things—" And now the voice sounded almost coy. "—but very few of my secrets are worth the peril of their knowing. Tell me, human: Do they still share Pandora's lesson in your lands?"

The eyes gleamed almost punishingly bright in the near-darkness of the cave.

Aziraphale swallowed around a suddenly dry throat; sweat bloomed under his arms and along the back of his neck.

"Y-yes, they do. But." He took a fortifying breath. Seven years of meticulous research, several thousands of pounds, the regrettable necessity of physical conditioning, and half a week's trek through the wilderness, he reminded himself. "I believe the potential reward is worth the risk, in this case."

A rumbling laugh reverberated through the cave, shivering through the rock and the air until he felt his own chest rattling with it. Oh, dear.

"Ask, then," the voice invited, "and upon your head be the consequences."

Another deep breath in, and out. He folded his hands in front of himself to keep them from betraying his nerves.

"You see, I have made a lifetime's study of the occult. It's a passion only matched by my love of good food. And, and, and, a _close_ reading of certain texts suggest you to be in possession of a, hmm, a most curious, er, _secretion_ that is said to have inspired descriptions of what mana or ambrosia might taste like." He winced a hopeful and not-quite-apologetic smile in the shadow's direction.

The eerie yellow eyes winked out of existence.

And then winked back in.

"Yeah, wait, hold on—did you seriously come here to ask me if my _goo_ tastes good?"

A mildly hysterical laugh squeaked out of Aziraphale before he could quite catch it. "Um, not strictly speaking, no…"

The awkward silence stretched between them for several dozen shadowy pulses before the entire back of the cavern went abruptly still.

"Oh…" the voice said, sounding, to Aziraphale's admittedly untrained ear, a bit scandalized for an ancient eldritch being. " _Oh_ —"

"Yes, well, obviously, only if you were willing. I won't lie and say I wouldn't be disappointed to be turned away, but I didn't come with an expectation of being granted the honor of an, er, answer, as it were. It's just, you know, one gets on in one's years, starts taking stock of dreams deferred and all that." He stuttered to a stop and offered another hopeful smile. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained?"

"Ha!" The voice cut off and made a noise that was not unlike what Aziraphale imagined a blackhole clearing its throat might sound like. "Humans! Ahhhhhhhh, yeah, sure, why the hell not?"

Aziraphale felt relief wash through him so sharply he was almost dizzy with it. He'd been, perhaps, underselling how disappointed he would have been to have been turned away, for all that he was serious about respecting the Dread Serpent's wishes.

"How marvelous," he managed after he'd taken a few seconds to swallow most of the giddiness down. "Thank you ever so much, my dear, er, serpent?"

The shadows had picked back up their steady pulsing again, though now they appeared to be oozing a little closer, further banking the feeble efforts of Aziraphale's poor lantern. The eyes, however, appeared exactly the same. Whether this was because they hadn't moved or because they'd shrunk as the creature had moved closer to retain the same perspective, Aziraphale couldn't quite tell. If he tried to focus on the space just around them, vertigo crept in, so he decided to let the mystery be.

"Don't thank me yet," the voice warned. "It's not like I can tell what it tastes like to a human. Could be about as 'inspiring' as sugar water, for all we know."

"Oh, but just to be afforded the opportunity!" Aziraphale wrung his hands together. "What I mean is, I am very grateful."

"So, what, you want this on a water cracker or something? Mother of pearl spoon?"

Despite his best efforts to remain practical about the whole thing—as far as practicality could take him in a situation like this, at least—he felt himself flush. "I was hoping for a pure taste, if it wouldn't be too much trouble. One can't know how the flavor or texture might be, er, influenced by other mediums."

"Fair enough."

A bit of shadow near Aziraphale's face coalesced into a more solid shape, looking a bit like the tapered end of a serpent's tail if it were fashioned of some substance poised on the precipice between liquid and gas, including the faint suggestion of scales. Hanging from the blunted tip was a teardrop of something clear and viscous.

Oh, this was really happening, Aziraphale thought with a detached sort of mania. He couldn't spare much brain function toward being properly flustered, however, because the lion's share of his consciousness was entranced by that single bit of fabled nectar hanging within reach. He felt certain he was experiencing the antithesis of Sisyphean desire: here was years of time and effort and longing and wild imagination distilled, and he was going to be able to literally taste it.

If he'd been thinking more clearly, he would have clocked that the not-a-tail and its gooey bounty had manifested about eye level, perfectly positioned for him to lean forward and tip his face up and receive it like near-literal mana from above. As it was, he reached up an eager hand, drew the tendril closer—cool and slick on his palm—and sucked the droplet off the end like he was sipping from the stem of a honeysuckle.

"Ngk."

Flavor at once savory and sweet shivered up through his jawbones into his skull until he felt like he was hearing the taste as a single pure note sung in the center of a temple whose acoustic resonance was so perfectly attuned it might shatter him like glass if it went on for too long. The sensation wrenched a deep, harmonic moan from the cathedral of his ribcage, like he was answering a call or obeying a fundamental law of motion.

" _Ngk_."

A moment later, dizzy and flushed, he opened eyes he didn't remember closing and met the unblinking gaze of the serpent, whose thin pupils looked like they might be slightly thicker than before. The shadows juddered unevenly.

Aziraphale choked on an apology and released the captive tendril, throwing his hands and his head back so quickly he almost lost his balance and fell. A band of something solid and unmistakably cool, even through the thick layers of his travel gear, nudged him back upright.

"Steady on," the voice said, sounding pitchy enough that Aziraphale wasn't entirely sure who the advice was for.

"Terribly sorry," Aziraphale said breathlessly. "I'm not sure what came over me."

"Hnn, uh, no harm done," the voice said, still sounding about as taken aback as Aziraphale felt. The glowing eyes blinked again. "It, um, it tastes good, then?"

"My dear, that was the most singular experience of my _life_."

"Right, uhhh, terrific. What, um… what did you say your name was again?"

"Aziraphale."

"Hngh, hi. You can call me Crowley. Listen, do you want another taste?"

" _Yes_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unhinged Foodie Flusters Local Eldritch Being, more at 10


	2. Prompt: Mythical Creatures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: Mythical Creatures
> 
> Unbeta-ed because I'm _living on the edge._
> 
>  **Chapter tags:** No particular warnings, just shenanigans and Crawly's unsubtle monster thirst

The temple, when Crawly approaches, is still in relatively good condition for being abandoned at the edges of a desert. Sand has only just begun to creep up the walls and gather on the steps. From inside, the thrumming subsonic chords of heavenly power that guided him across the desert begin progressing and resolving in an anxious rhythm that tells him he's probably been rumbled, despite his attempts to pull in his own aura. He considers doing an about-face and leaving well enough alone, except… there's something in the meter and timber of the ethereal signature that's almost soothing when he opens his mouth and lets it buzz on the back of his tongue.

He steps up into the wide entrance and pauses to let his eyes adjust to the shadowy recesses of the temple after the harsh sand glare. From further in, he hears the shifting scrape of something large moving across stone echo through the empty rooms.

"Go away, Crawly," says a very familiar voice, albeit squawkier than usual.

"Aziraphale?" he asks, feeling the last of the trepidation that had been dogging his steps the entire day's journey evaporate. "What the Heaven are you doing here? Are _you_ what's got all the nearby villages in a panic?"

The angel gives a trilling moan, and isn't _that_ an interesting noise. Crawly saunters into the temple, following the sound of grumbling and shuffling into a large side room off the main worship space.

"I'm _trying_ to keep well enough out of the way until I can figure out how to… sort out this unfortunate situation."

Crawly steps through the doorway and feels an electric thrill snake down his overly articulated spine.

On the far side of the room, a huge beast with the body of a lion and the wings and head of an eagle, crested with curling ox horns, sits statue still on powerful haunches. Weak light from the narrow window near the ceiling gilds the cream-colored fur and cinnamon-hue feathers with angelic gold. Halos of power not entirely seen but certainly felt spin and drift amidst each other in concentric orbits around the creature whose too-human eyes burn nova blue.

"Oh, you magnificent bastard," Crawly breathes, legitimately awed. "What have you gotten yourself into?"

The apparent regalness of the creature is immediately dispelled when Aziraphale rolls his eyes and fidgets great, taloned claws and shifts his wings awkwardly.

"I was up on high for my usual centennial check-in, and, and I suppose I was a bit flustered when I was reincorporating."

He rises onto all four paws and performs an anxious circle, letting Crawly see the frankly adorable twitching of his magnificently feather-tufted tail. He considers all the disparate pieces of the form, the original rumors he'd heard about the sorts of angels meant to be guarding the gates of Eden, and comes up with a delightful hypothesis.

"Did you, by chance, reincorporate into an earthly form without specifying the shape should be human?"

He isn't sure how an eagle face can be capable of pouting, but here they are.

"Don't _laugh_ at me, Crawly," Aziraphale demands, feathered mane poofing and wings mantling in outrage.

"Who's laughing? Bang-up job, your corporation did, translating a cherub form into something that can walk the earth— _I_ think. Suppose the Quartermaster's not completely useless."

"Well I'm glad _someone's_ enjoying this," Aziraphale snaps—literally, with a pointed clack of his wickedly curved beak. Crawly sternly reminds his own corporation not to go even more jelly limbed than his usual in appreciation.

"You've already got a nickname, you know. 'The Great Griffin' is out here guarding the dead king's gold."

"What _gold_? This temple has been abandoned for generations! Surely any gold would have been picked over by looters by now. I'm _here_ because it's _private_." The giant tail whips back and forth in vexation. "I can't abide the, the _fawning_."

"Pants-wetting terror and screaming, more like."

"If you're not going to be _useful_ —"

"What's the fun in that?"

"—then you can _leave_. I need to concentrate if I'm ever going to manage a full-corporation shift. Not all of us are infernally flexible, you know."

"Now, hold on, what's the rush? Aren't you going to at least put this form through its paces first? Take advantage of the different look?"

Aziraphale narrows his eyes. "What are you suggesting, you fiend?"

Crawly offers his most charming smile. "Don't you have any assignments where the target's a bit of a tough sell? Not ready to hear the totally reasonable suggestions of a mild-mannered fellow human?"

The angel cocks his head, which in his current form is an uncomfortably perpendicular motion. "Go on…"

He spreads his hands wide. "Maybe the message will come through clearer if delivered by the awe-inspiring Great Griffin?"

"You're still sore about the Níðhöggr stories," Aziraphale pronounces.

"Pshaw—no! I just think the humans could do with another mythical creature." He sidles closer and makes a show of inspecting the ethereal energies surrounding the angel's beastly form. "After, I could give you a few tips. On shapeshifting, I mean," he offers casually.

Aziraphale grumbles for a moment before rolling his eyes again. "Fine. It might be nice to fly openly."

Crawly imagines, with perhaps too-keen anticipation, powerfully flapping wings, the nibble grace of taloned paws touching down, and a terribly divine creature stalking down its prey with stubborn purpose. The gleam Aziraphale gets in his eyes when he's able to safely channel that streak of bastardry he likes to pretend he doesn't have...

"Hngh, absolutely. So, which of your assignments is up first?"


	3. Prompt: Abandoned to/with Creature

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: Abandoned to/with Creature
> 
> **Chapter tags:** mage!Crowley, mentions of abduction & enslavement, non-graphic violence, non-graphic mentions of cuts/blood. 
> 
> I don't think it gets beyond mild action TV show levels of any of the aforementioned, but if you need more info hit me up in Tumblr or Discord DMs and I can give you more spoilery details. Take care of yourselves!

Crowley's lost count of the days he's been trapped in the Divine Emperor's court by the time Hastur and Ligur drag the creature in. It looks like an especially perverse creator smashed together all the most intimidating bits of a dragon, a bear, and a bird of prey into one hulking creature. In deference to the size of both its body and all its very many sharp bits, Hastur and Ligur have used an almost comical number of shackles and chains to bring it to heel.

"Spotted this biggun lurking on the mountain slopes the other day and thought you might like him for your menagerie, My Lord," Ligur says with a sharp jerk to the chain attached to the muzzle keeping the creature's massive snout clamped shut.

In protest, the creature snarls low and vicious, but even after accounting for the many restraints, its movements are sluggish, sloppy, suggesting it's been dosed with something.

"Set out some bait with Hastur's poison and bob's your uncle!" Ligur confirms.

"Well done," Lucifer drawls, barely affording the "gift" a cursory glance from where he's reading over letters from his negligent sprawl across his hulking throne.

Crowley stares hard at the creature—the hulking furred shoulders, whipcord tail, and massive paws tipped with dark claws—and feels his guts sink as he recognizes and accepts the stupidity of what he's about to do.

"S'a bit ugly for the menagerie, isn't it?" he observes.

The creature's head wobbles around to look in his direction. Once it clocks him, he waggles his fingers in sarcastic acknowledgement. It snarls and heaves its entire body forward in a lunge brought up short by the manacles. Ligur and Hastur yelp and curse as they wrestle with the tangle of creature and chains as it rumbles and growls deep in its throat and strains toward where Crowley sits on the dias that elevates the throne.

Above him, Lucifer tsks. "I don't think it likes you very much, Crawly."

Crowley affects a disinterested shrug and conjures a sparkling orb of magelight to begin weaving between his hands in a serpentine fashion. The effort required to perform the simple trick through the dampening confines of his own set of iron shackles makes cold sweat break across the back of his neck, but it's worth it to keep Lucifer's attention on him. He needs to play this very carefully.

"Just don't see what the big deal is. Looks like a dragon went slumming with a bear and then slapped a feather boa on the resulting embarrassment." The creature snarls again and looks like it would lunge at him again except that Ligur's magically shortened the chain between the manacles so it's hobbled. "Does it even have any special abilities?"

Lucifer sits up straighter, finally lowering his papers, and looks toward Hastur and Ligur expectantly.

Ligur scowls at Crowley, but Hastur jumps in immediately with an affronted "Oi!" and bluster.

"Seems like a fair question," Lucifer says and waves a negligent hand at the creature. "My menagerie is for the exceptional, not the merely unusual. Can it breathe fire? Shapeshift? Sing? Perform? It certainly seems to understand when it's being insulted. Does it reason?"

"It's big!" Hastur defends. "Proper terrifying teeth and claws and the like!"

Lucifer rolls his eyes, and Ligur shoots another murderous scowl Crowley's way. On the ground, the creature's attention is fixed on Crowley as it pants and strains against the shackles.

The presentation doesn't make its way back uphill from there.

Crowley fights to keep his expression bland as he tosses and catches the magelight with studied nonchalance throughout.

Even though he's expecting it, when Hastur and Ligur jump him that night as he saunters back toward his hovel of a room—a temporary reward for good behavior and exceptional performance—he still shrieks a little in terrorized surprise.

"You think you're so clever, you flash bastard?" Ligur snarls in his ear as he twists one of Crowley's arms up painfully behind his back and begins frog-marching him back the way he came.

"I've always said your big mouth is going to be your end," Hastur agrees as he conjures fire in his palm and leads them down a dark corridor that Crowley realizes leads toward the dungeon.

"Guys, hey, what's the big deal?" Crowley fawns with a pasted-on smile. "You're not sore about earlier, are you? Just doing my job. You know how it is. Got to keep Himself entertained. S'nothing personal."

"Maybe not," Ligur allows with a horrible smirk, "but this? What's about to happen? Extremely personal, mate."

"No, come on—guys!" he tries, starting to dig his heels in against the slippery purchase of the stone floors as they enter the dungeon and immediately aim for the bigger cells—the ones designed to hold big crowds of people or large creatures.

"And if by some miracle you manage to slither your way out of _this_ , don't think we'll be square. We've had enough of you, Crawly," Hastur adds as he strides ahead and peers through a small viewing latch into one of the cells. He bares his teeth in a grin when the sound of the scraping metal elicits a subdued growl from within.

"You think Lucifer will like you getting his favorite jester killed?" Crowley says shrilly in a last-ditch effort. He's actively trying to squirm away now, and Hastur has to quickly step back and grab his other arm to keep him secure. "He's going to be pissed—you know he will!"

"I'm willing to take my chances," Ligur says and smacks him sharply against the ear.

The world slips a little sideways and Crowley stumbles, his head filling with a sharp ringing. Hastur and Ligur take advantage of the disorientation and hustle him forward.

Without really tracking every step of the process, Crowley finds himself inside the cell with the creature with the door slamming shut behind him. The definitive thunk of metal on stone almost completely drowns out the sound of Ligur's pointed snap. The creature's shackles fall away, and it lifts itself menacingly to its feet while Crowley fights to keep his own feet under him.

From behind, he hears the sound of the viewing latch scraping open again, and then Hastur and Ligur's twin sniggers as the creature begins to stalk toward him.

Crowley holds his hands out placatingly and begins to stumble along the perimeter of the room, keeping as much distance between himself and the creature as possible as it lowers its head and bares viciously long fangs within its furred and scaled muzzle.

"OK, all right, hi there," he croons. "Look, I didn't mean any disrespect earlier…"

The beast snaps massive jaws at him, and he yelps and steps back reflexively, thudding against the cold stone of the cell wall.

"Can we work something out?" he squeaks.

The creature lunges with a howling snarl, and Crowley goes down with a choked scream.

Snarls and snapping and gurgling wails fill the room, but the carnage is unavoidably and unfortunately—in Hastur and Ligur's opinion, anyway—obscured by the hulking mass of the creature as it crouches possessively over its prey.

Within a minute, and a few whinging complaints, Hastur and Ligur consider the whole thing a bad job well done and make their way back up out of the dungeon, leaving Crowley to his fate.

Once their footsteps and the grumbling echo of their voices have faded away, the creature lifts his head and turns back to stare at the door intently.

"Bloody hell, Aziraphale, I'm going to _bruise_ , you miserable twat," Crowley whines from his awkward position, wedged almost fully prone into the back corner of the cell, limbs and neck folded like bent nails with the effort to keep his everything hidden from view of the door.

The creature—Aziraphale—swings his head back around and favors Crowley with a huffy snort of hot, mildly fetid breath in Crowley's face. Crowley gags and shoves the great snout away from him.

"Oh, leave off, that is vile. Smells like a toad died in a hog's mouth."

Aziraphale sits back on massive haunches and shifts his shoulders in an approximation of a shrug. A tumble of grumbles and grizzles spill from between his slightly parted mouth.

Crowley shakes his head and holds up his wrists. "Can't hear you. Can barely do parlor tricks with these things keeping me cut off to a trickle. Think you can get them off?"

Aziraphale leans in and eyes the half-inch iron bands critically, then gives them a considering sniff, and finally a cringing lick. Crowley rolls his eyes when Aziraphale rears back and rubs his snout daintily on his shoulder fur.

"Oh, so you'll eat _poisoned meat_ , but you draw the line at forged iron?" he gripes, mostly to keep himself distracted from the possibility that Aziraphale won't be able to break the shackles, which drastically lowers their chances of getting out of the castle alive.

Aziraphale darts forward and swipes a wide, roughened tongue up the entire side of Crowley's neck and face and then makes an exaggerated production of smacking his mouth open and closed in distaste.

Crowley groans and draws up the thin fabric of his jester shirt to wipe away the cooling slick of saliva. "You bastard! There's no reason for both of us to stink! Fuck's sake, you must have scraped off four layers of skin—should get you a job as an industrial piece of _sandpaper_. You great idiot! What were you even thinking, following me here? Now we might _both_ be trapped." His voice cracks on the last accusation, and he's horrified to feel a burning sensation behind his eyes.

With a soft whine, Aziraphale crowds into his space and folds Crowley against his broad, feathered chest with gentle arms. His paws are big enough that there isn't an inch of Crowley's back left exposed within the hug, and when Aziraphale tucks his snout into the back of Crowley's neck, Crowley wishes for a desperate moment that he might hide himself away completely within the cocoon of warm feather, fur, and scale for a time. But, since he knows Aziraphale has probably been working himself into a tizzy for the past however long since Crowley was abducted, he makes do with wrapping his arms as far around Aziraphale's torso as he can manage and trying to channel back the same amount of love and safety as he's receiving.

They cling for several long minutes before Aziraphale finally draws back enough to briefly press his forehead firm against Crowley's in a burst of affection.

Then, with an apologetic-sounding whine, he uses a big paw to draw one of Crowley's arms around and up perpendicular to his mouth. He carefully takes the edge of the iron manacle between the side of his giant, razor-sharp teeth and pauses. Crowley stifles an alarmed shriek as he realizes what the great bastard is planning. Aziraphale is a precise, fussy sort of creature, and he's taken care to ensure it's the relatively less fragile _back_ of Crowley's wrist that's pressed against his teeth, but… the potential for a bloody slip is unavoidably high.

Aziraphale waits, bright eyes shining eerily from under feathered and scaled brow ridges, until Crowley finally meets his gaze, blows out a shuddering breath, and nods.

Aziraphale snaps his jaw closed decisively. Crowley feels a sharp sting as both the iron and some of his skin gives way, but it's swamped by the fiery tingle of roughly half of his power rushing back and zipping like lightning through his limbs.

"—id it work? Crowley? Oh! Fiddlesticks, you're bleeding! I'm so sorry, my dear, I did my best, but the cuff was just so fitted. Please tell me you can handle the other on your own, now."

Aziraphale's voice is muffled, fading in and out like he's speaking through a strong wind, but it's back, it's back, Crowley can hear him again, they're going to get out of this, he just knows it. Crowley swats the paws fretfully hovering around the superficial cut on his wrist away and clamps his opposite hand over it. A slapdash staunching spell will have to do for the moment. He'll do a proper healing once he gets the other cuff off.

"I'm fine—I'm fine," he insists and grabs Aziraphale's broad face in his hands. "You're so stupidly brave, you perfect arsehole." He plants a smacking kiss on the edge of Aziraphale's snout just where fur gives way to scales. "I'll take care of the other one, and then we can go off together."

Aziraphale's shoulder slump and his eyes close briefly in relief before he straightens back up and returns Crowley's kiss with a brief nuzzle to his cheek.

"Yes, please. Let's go _home_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who are they?? Where do they live?? What sort of lovey shenanigans do they get up to???? What's the actual relationship dynamic? What sort of repercussions might there be after they escape? Who knows?! I certainly don't! (Not yet, at least. I miiiight revisit these two for another prompt in the future.)


End file.
